The Courage To Face A Scorpion
by JPLE
Summary: It was always going to take something drastic for Draco Malfoy to find himself - Astoria has nine months to be pregnant. Draco has nine months to be courageous.
1. S is for Surprise

This is a story of love and loyalty, fearfulness and fearlessness, and development.  
>It's not <em>really<em> a story of Scorpius Malfoy _(__although, in the strictest sense it is)_, but it is a story of childishness, and very adult fears.

This is a story that, in some ways, everyone is familiar with. Familiar because everyone has fears, and everyone has the ability to face them.

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><p>Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling. The correct grammar, spelling and characterisation is owed to Angie (love. just. lied). The plot and all other errors belong to me.<p>

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><p>You'd never been the kind of couple that was into open communication. He preferred it that way, and you preferred it when he was happy. You spoke at length over certain issues like money, work, friends, the Ministry - but only in a superficial sense, never daring to scratch the blackened surface which hid away things neither of you were comfortable with. Your normality had been carefully created by both of you; designed to hide the past and cast an opaque sheet over the uncomfortable reminders of it in your everyday lives.<p>

It had gotten to the point where it was neither a tango nor a salsa to carefully sidestep those issues in your daily conversation. It required neither tact nor grace; not even a sharp wit. It was utter normalcy, and in some ways it suited you.

_(You had never been the wittiest of sorts anyway, you concede, although you fancied yourself as somewhat graceful.)_

There were times you wished that he was a little more conversational, perhaps a little less guarded, a little less careful. You imagined that if he were less like himself, he might have been more spontaneous, more passionate and more honest.

You always felt somewhat guilty about harbouring these feelings. After all, you were taught - amongst other pureblood lessons - the importance of maintaining strict indifference towards romance; the art of constructing the most impenetrable of disguises, the most motionless of masks. But beneath it all you felt most _human_ when somewhere in your chest begged to be _loved_; something he never seemed capable of, or interested in.

It wasn't as if your marriage was arranged; you knew even before he proposed that he was unlikely to be the most attentive of husbands, and in some ways you enjoyed that. You liked the solitude it gave you, the ability to do things for yourself and have time to breathe. You were never one of those couples who clung to each other like a well-rehearsed sticking charm or who finished each other's sentences. You _loved _Draco Malfoy, and although at times it seemed illogical, you felt certain of that. You weren't sure he reciprocated that love, but you knew he liked you, which was more than anyone else he ever had contact with at the least.

An apt for communication was neither your strong point, nor a trait you suspected he valued in others, however, in some cases, you'd come to recognise it as absolutely necessary. You happened to have been in one of those situations, and it was one that was not easily addressed.

Fear wasn't the correct term, but there was some kind of trepidation you felt when you leant against the cool tiles of the bathroom thinking about it. He would never have physically maimed you in any sense - he was far too careful for that, but he never learnt to paint the pureblood poker face, and he was often irrational and quick to temper in situations which he couldn't control.

_(Like when anyone dared speak of the things that were hidden under that sheet.)_

You conceded that the matter in question was one of fairly drastic proportions. It was definitely and completely outside of his control. Outside of yours, really, in some ways. You were almost one hundred percent certain he had never banked on the fact, never even worried about the possibility that you would have fallen into this situation, because you'd never noticed it yourself either. Not until the symptoms themselves became exceedingly obvious, and a healer confirmed your suspicions.

You were _pregnant_. For you at least, nothing felt more wonderful.

The sickness, the discomfort, the guilt you felt about lying to him about it for weeks now was worth nothing in the face of what grew _inside of you_, getting stronger and evolving more every day, nurtured by your own body. Somebody who you didn't yet know, but that you _loved _already.

You knew that you were completely unprepared to be a mother, but you thought that if you tried your hardest, then you wouldn't be completely horrible at it. And if, he wasn't prepared to be a father then maybe you could make up for that void.

That thought lingered uncomfortably in your stomach, and you lurched for the toilet bowl again.

You'd dressed, showered, rehearsed your lines over and over before he returned home. It was then that you found yourself completely unprepared. The dinner was forgotten, and even a quick wand waving couldn't disguise the fact that you'd neglected to organise something. He didn't seem to mind; in fact, he was in a rather good mood. Thanking Merlin, you managed to come up with something half-heartedly before eight o'clock.

Dinner was better rehearsed than the phrases you'd turned over in your head all day. It was the same conversation; repeated and rephrased so many times you knew half of the answers to your own questions before you'd even asked them. He knew the conversation so well that he could calculate exactly how long he had to finish his meal before the conversation ran as dry as the bread you'd hastily shoved on the table.

Failing to find a gap in the normalcy to insert a conversation starter for more pressing news, you felt slightly disheartened when dinner came to an end and he thanked you softly with a chaste kiss on the forehead, before slipping off to the unused bedroom he'd converted into a library.

Following him in there wasn't a conceivable option, so you charmed the dishes to do themselves and swept around the house picking up and putting down items, feeling uncomfortably nervous as your heart pounded like the hooves of centaurs.

Finally, sick of it all, you carried yourself up the stairs into your bedroom and flopped back onto the bed in a sort of childish manner. Lying there was sort of relaxing; spread out on your back, pillows tossed haphazardly on the ground so your head lay on the cool sheets.

That's how he finally noticed you; eyes closed in contemplation, hand resting carefully over your fairly flat stomach, dark curls strewn out messily over the bed from when you'd flopped down. He just stood there at first, you could tell from his soft breathing, and you considered feigning sleep, although you knew that was just an attempt to avoid facing him.

Eventually he cleared his throat almost awkwardly, and you opened your eyelids; eyes glued to the ceiling.

'You look tired,' he offered, his voice sounding more detached than caring. The comment was simply one of those fillers he used to avoid uncomfortable silence or topics that were less desirable. You chose to ignore it; there were more pressing things to talk about, and perhaps it was the hormones, but you were beginning to grow tired of the circles you found yourself running in with him.

_(Of course it had taken something so drastic to change that.)_

He looked so out of place standing at the side of the bed, shifting his weight uncomfortably, looking unsure about approaching you. He opted for sitting at the end of the bed near your feet whilst looking at you with a perplexed irritation, probably compounded by your lack of reply.

'You're not feeling well,' he began again. A statement, rather than a question was something he used commonly. He offered you something to agree with rather than to elaborate on, but you'd decided not to allow yourself any way out of what you had to say.

'My health is adequate.'

The phrase sounded so contrived and false when you thought about it. Perhaps you were both contrived at the time, your relationship had fallen into something forced and plastic, sugar coated and varnished with a clear lacquer.

'Then what is it?' he asked bluntly, face slightly stony.

And then the moment had come. You were rather hopeless with wit, and you supposed he was rather tactless, so it was unlikely this was going to be a comfortable conversation no matter how you presented it. If he was blunt, you figured you should be too, so you sat up gingerly on the bed, legs crossed and looked decisively at his pale face with sharp features.

'I'm pregnant,' you announced, and the words tumbled out of your mouth with a lot more ease than you had expected.

There it was: An impromptu phrase, hanging between you, for the first time in months. For some reason the air seemed to be thicker than usual, and the tension was evident.

'I'm sorry, what?' he asked, although it was evident he'd heard you clearly. His face was twisting into some kind of unflattering mix between shock, horror and anger.

You didn't care. It was rather exciting really, dangerous even. You hadn't really ever had a proper row.

'I'm pregnant,' you repeated, with slightly more conviction.

'How?' he asked, although it sounded more like an accusation.

'Well, how do you think?' you replied, knowing very well that he hated rhetorical questions.

'I thought you had this covered,' he spat, anger building, his jaw straining.

'Sometimes unexpected things happen; it's not always one hundred percent effective.'

'This is your mistake.'

'I don't think I managed to get pregnant on my own.'

'I didn't neglect my side of the bargain.'

'I wasn't aware that fucking was simply a concession or a trade-off.'

'I thought I could trust you.'

He stood up again from the bed and, through your conversation, he was gesturing with rapid hand movements which both scared and amused you simultaneously. You admitted it was slightly thrilling fighting so clearly with him, although you couldn't say you enjoyed it.

'To do what exactly? I took all the precautions I could, it's not as if I'd planned this to trick you,' you hissed.

He flexed his jaw again involuntarily and sat back down on the bed, staring at his hands.

'How are you going to fix this?' he asked; his voice cold and uncaring.

Your blood boiled. You weren't completely sure what he'd meant when he'd said _'fix'_, but there was no way you would be deprived of something that made you feel so _complete_. It wasn't _fair_, and maybe if he'd stopped to pay you a bit of real attention, you thought, you wouldn't have felt so strongly about the living being that coexisted with you.

Draco didn't _understand_. He had something to do all day, he wasn't lonely or bored or under stimulated. He didn't seem to care about being detached. He was loved by someone, even if he'd never cared to think about it.

'_Fix_ this?'

Your voice was shrill at that point and sounded strange. You'd never thought you could make such a fuss over something; you'd never thought you'd have something worth making such a fuss over.

'Clearly you can't have…it,' he trailed off, 'we're completely underprepared, not to mention I don't want a child and you can't take care of it yourself.'

'Why the hell not?'

'Because you don't know how. You've never been a mother before, have you?'

'And I suppose I must take classes before I become one?'

'_If_ you ever become one,' he corrected, 'I'd rather know you'd be adequate first, yes.'

'I'm sure I'd be adequate! Women have been doing this for the past two thousand years, Draco, it's not exactly a new concept!'

'Yes, but you're just not this sort of woman.'

'Oh, considering that you know me far better than I know myself, please _enlighten me_ as to what kind of woman I am.'

'I never claimed that,' he snarled, side stepping the important question.

'But you think you should be able to _instruct_ me on the future of the child, rather than consult with me?'

'Well yes, it does happen to be my fucking problem as well as yours!' he yelled, turning to snap at you, your faces only inches apart. 'In fact, it's more of my problem because now I have to bloody _convince_ you that it's a bad idea, before I even get to sorting out the main problem here! How can you be so blind, Astoria? We would make atrocious parents!'

'Why?' you challenged.

'Look at us!' he motioned, flipping his hands back and forth, gesturing to the two of you, 'we don't have the money we used to, _you_ don't even work, what would everyone say? They'd know _it_ was unplanned.'

'It's not about money, or work, you know neither of those are real problems, and when have you _ever_ given a toss about what anyone else thinks? The only opinion you care about is that of your blessed father and you _bloody well know_ he doesn't give a _fuck_ anymore.'

'My father knows what's best for me.'

'When are you _ever_ going to give up that mantra? Your father almost got you all killed, or have you forgotten about that slight in your history?'

'How dare you-'

'How dare you? How would you know anything about being a parent when you were brought up next to Voldemort and-'

'For fucks sake!' he almost screamed, and you stopped to catch your breath, just for a second. You stared at each other, face to face, noses separated by hot breath. His hands were pulling at his hair, yours were balled into fists. You looked more defiant and confident than you felt; he looked stressed and angry, frustrated and just a little bit broken.

'You said this was _my_ mistake,' you began, 'and maybe you're right. But if this is my mistake, then I get to choose how to deal with it, so you better decide what you're planning on doing, because I _will_ be having this child.'

'I cannot _be_ a father Astoria.'

'Well you can either learn, or you can find someone else who will appreciate your cowardice on that issue, but we all know what _daddy_ would think of the shame of breaking off your marriage.'

'I'm not a coward.'

'Yes, you are.'

'I'm not a fucking coward!'

'You don't want this because you're scared of it.'

'It's a fucking baby Astoria, not the apocalypse.'

'You're driven by fear Draco. It's the reason you've never said a word against your father-'

'Stop it.'

'-it's the reason you used to hulk around with those undereducated thugs at Hogwarts-'

'Shut up, Astoria.'

'-it's the reason you joined the Death Eaters, the reason you couldn't kill Dumbledore, the reason you never admit that you're wrong-'

'Shut the fuck up!'

And you did, only because that time he sounded different. Crackly almost, like you'd finally worn him down, to something beyond the opaque sheet.

He breathed heavily, pulling his face away from yours and staring at the ceiling. You realised that he was blinking back the moisture which pooled at the edge of his eyes. He pulled the back of his arm hastily across them and turned back to face you, eyes looking a darker, more a grey sort of blue, the skin below them adorned with dark, tired-looking circles.

'I don't know how to be a father.'

'We already addressed this-'

'No, I mean, I don't know how to be a _good_ father.'

'You don't want to try though, so how on earth do you expect to be one?'

'Even if I tried.'

'Why not?'

He seemed to balk at this comment, and simply raised his eyes to yours in a defeated manner.

'Look at me, Astoria.'

The phrase was pleading, almost desperate, something you'd never heard tumble from his lips. It was foreign and strange, and yet somehow pleasant, like you'd pried open the hard exterior to find a precious pearl.

'I don't know how to be a good _person_, let alone a good father. I used to be a Death Eater for Merlin's sake; I have a fucking huge black tattoo on my lower forearm- if my surname isn't enough of a giveaway. The child would be cursed from the day it would be born just for being a Malfoy. It's as bad as being a Black, which technically, I am also.'

He exhaled heavily and ran his thumb nervously over his lip.

'When it comes to children, all I know about my own childhood was getting presents and money and travelling and not being allowed to say anything lest it ruin my parents sparkling reputation. Or being left at home with blasted _Dobby_ who was forever trying to lock himself in the oven. I wouldn't know what to _do_ with a child Astoria, I wouldn't know how to treat them, or how to act.

'I don't know the first thing about showing _affection_ or _love_, surely you would know that better than anyone else. I couldn't make it happy, I couldn't make it love me or want me. I probably wouldn't even be able to remember its fucking birthday, so the only thing I actually learnt as a child would be useless.'

This seemed to exert all his energy and he bit his lip childishly, his hands clasped in his lap and looking straight at the wall to the right of the bed.

'You could try Draco, which would be better than nothing. I would rather have that than do it on my own.'

After an unbroken silence he stood, as if to excuse himself from the uncomfortable situation, and walked towards the door stiffly.

'Are you leaving?'

'No' he sighed, rubbing one eye with his fingers, 'I'll be downstairs for a while, go to bed, and we'll discuss this in the morning.'

'That's not going to make you fear it less,' you called down to him as he descended the stairs evenly.

You thought you might have heard him pause, just for a second, before he disappeared into the hall and you flopped back onto the bed, exhausted but triumphant.


	2. C is for Clatter

For being in love, and still managing to have ridiculously big rows.

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><p>Eternal gratitude goes to my beta Angie (love. just. lied).<p>

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><p>Madame Malkin's might not have been your first stop for adventure, but it was enough to satisfy your thirst for a change of scenery. The walls of the house were beginning to suffocate you, and anything different from them would be welcomed to alleviate your growing restlessness. However, you were surprised Draco had requested your company to Diagon Alley in the first place; he'd been more distant than usual over the past three weeks that had passed since your argument.<p>

At first, it was as upsetting as it was uncomfortable. Conversation was hard to come by when there were only two occupants of the house, one of whom was committedly silent. However non-stimulating as it may have been, you admitted then that you enjoyed his company, even if it was slightly artificial.

However, in some way you thought it beneficial. The decision you had made had clearly turned things inside out, and you hoped that instead of pushing him permanently away, you'd simply rocked the boat enough to get it out of the rut you had found yourselves in. Life without Draco seemed disturbing enough, even if your relationship lacked the passion and love that came with a successful marriage; you needed each other to stay afloat. A part of you had a premonition that things could be _different_, could be _more, _if you only gave him a push in the right direction.

_(Or maybe more of a forceful shove.) _

Before marrying him, your mother had warned you that one couldn't change a man. That by this age things were _expected_ of you, and that you should be wary of tying yourself to someone that had an _unfortunate_ past and _questionable_ activities. Someone that would be almost inevitably cast out in one way or another. You suppose she thought you would try and change his attitude towards the past; make him lighter, perhaps less tainted by the experience.

But you'd never shared the thoughts of your mother and your family. You'd never thought for a second that Draco was simply a pawn in an unfortunate chess game, a series of bad moves made by someone else that just happened to affect him. Draco was a part of that change, a part of that life, which was why, you concluded, that it clearly had such a profound effect on him. A Draco that was just in the wrong place at the wrong time wouldn't hold the losses of so many on his shoulders the way he did.

It was clearly difficult trying to piece it all back together, being hated by his past peers for escaping punishment, being outcast by the victors for being a part of it all. It was even more difficult, you saw, for him to exist in a world where the ideals pressed down on him by his father didn't fit in. Where there was no longer a higher status for someone with purer blood. Too often, you found him stopping mid-conversation to force himself out of saying 'mudblood' or 'blood traitor' as a prefix for people's names..

He was confused, somehow. But you saw the confusion hidden under layers of lies and arrogance, his natural reaction to shame and fear. On the outside he had changed dramatically. On the inside he was a mess, struggling to rebuild himself in a way to which he was not accustomed, still refusing to admit that he was _wrong_ all along, and that he was unsure of the changes that had occurred all around him.

Draco didn't need to change, you knew that. You knew just as well that any effort to change him would be, as your mother had correctly identified, futile. What he did need was some kind of epiphany, the opportunity to _find_ himself, and that forceful shove you had envisaged yourself administering had, in fact, been administered by something no – someone – that wasn't even independently formed yet. Such incredible change was bound to make him realise something, or so you'd hoped.

Looking at him standing in front of the mirror of the shop in tailored robes, you realised he resembled less of his old self than he ever had. He was worn and weary, picking up more shifts at work in order to avoid thinking about other things. He'd organised for you to see his father's friend, a healer, in relation to that problem, but you'd never attended the appointment, you knew what he would have tried to persuade you into doing anyway, and you wouldn't have had any of it.

The tailor bustled around him, pinning and unpinning with simple wandwork as he stood motionless. You internally pleaded for an excuse to go outside. Old family money would surely pay for something new, but you had to get to Gringotts first, and he was oddly _thingy_ about you travelling around on your own.

'Draco, would you mind if I headed over to Flourish and Blotts for a few moments?'

Surely a book store would have been tame enough for him to acquiesce. You never really were an avid reader, but it would supply an excuse to go and look at more exciting things, and a chance to stretch your legs. Perhaps you'd even look into buying an owl, you hadn't owned one in months, and although you really had no one but Daphne to write to, a pet might have soothed the loneliness that bothered you at home.

'I expect I'll have finished in twenty minutes,' he began, 'will you, by then?'

'Of course,' you replied, and wasted no time darting out onto the street, sunlight washing over your face like an old friend.

It was pleasantly warm for November, and you floated down the cobbled streets towards the imposing façade of Gringotts. Stopping briefly to dig out the old rusted key from the swathes of your robes you produced it for the presiding Goblin, deducted twenty galleons from the vault and made your way back to the streets.

The owl emporium was rather smelly from last memory, so you thought it prudent to actually visit Flourish and Blotts beforehand. Pretending to be interested in the various volumes that lined the shelves was more difficult than one would think. Scanning your eyes over various titles including potion making and charms work, you tried to settle on something vaguely intriguing. Running a finger down the spine of a mildly interesting one on household charms, you found yourself interrupted by a lithe witch with rich, red hair.

'Sorry, do you mind if I grab the one next to that?' she asked politely, running her eyes absentmindedly over the title near your left hand.

'Of course not, although I think the pages are a little bent, I had a look at it a few minutes ago,' you smiled, handing it over to her, scanning her face for confirmation of the feeling of recognition you got.

'I'll probably take it anyway,' she grinned, 'I'm absolutely rubbish at household charms, I need all the help I can get, honestly.'

'As do I,' you lied, trying to keep the conversation going long enough for your brain to catch which classmate this girl was, 'I don't believe I was ever taught how to be a good housewife at Hogwarts; it was never promoted as a career choice, I suppose.'

She laughed, flicking the pages through her long fingers, 'I wouldn't have minded parenting classes either, might have helped me sleep for more than four minutes a night.'

'Oh, lovely,' you smiled, feeling a warmth spread all over you at the sight of what you guessed to be a very young infant in a deep blue cradle, which the witch had levitated and charmed to rock methodically in mid-air.

'I hope that's sarcasm,' she replied, 'I prefer at least eight hours or I roughly resemble a troll for the rest of the day.'

Recognising your mistake you felt your cheeks flush with embarrassment, 'No, sorry, I meant the child, he, or she is beautiful.'

'He,' she clarified, smiling broadly, 'and yes he is, but an absolute terror to look after, really, children are not for light sleepers. Rocking charms are what keeps me sane, I swear.'

Looking down at the child, you realised it had never looked so easy. The baby slept soundly, its head turned to the side, with its arms at its sides, tiny pink lips slightly ajar and purple veined eyelids closed peacefully. It had a smooth, bald head, but you guessed it would probably contain rich red hairs before long.

Somewhere above your stomach twisted, as though longing itself was a physical sense, and you felt a strange sort of companionship with the woman. Your smile involuntarily widened as you reminded yourself that you'd have something just as beautiful in just another seven months.

'Sorry for being so blunt, but I get this strange feeling that I know you from somewhere,' you began; figuring honesty was probably the best policy, 'were we in the same class?'

'Ginny,' she smiled, reaching out to shake your hand, 'I left in 1999, but you'd probably know me because of my husband's exploits, I really did try to avoid that by lopping all this off,' she sighed, grasping at the ends of her short, pixie-cut hair.

For a moment you forgot completely who you were, standing fixated on the child in the crib, and listening animatedly to the first person you'd really had an in-depth conversation with, in weeks. Then the pit in your stomach opened up, and you remembered that you were a Malfoy, and that instead of avoiding the likes of Ginny Potter like you would have at school, she would probably would have avoided you had it not been for blissful anonymity.

_(Draco would still probably murder you in six different ways if he found out.)_

'Ginny Weasley?' you feigned ignorance, plastering another smile over your face.

'Potter now, I suppose,' she said, missing your artificial facial expression, 'and so sorry, but I can't say the same for you. You are?'

'Naturally as I was in the year below you; I'm Astoria Greengrass.'

It was a reflex action, and right then you couldn't have put your finger on why you automatically reached for your maiden name. It was as if Greengrass was easier, tumbled across your lips better, and sounded better in the moment. You fought your guilt, saying it was simply because she wouldn't have remembered your real surname from school, but of course she would have. She would have associated it with all the wrong things too, and that's what really kept it from coming out. You were ashamed, and you were scared.

_(And perhaps, just then, you were even more like Draco than either of you suspected.)_

'Lovely to meet you in the camaraderie of household hopelessness.'

And the moment of internal tension was gone, replaced by a kind of hopefulness. It felt sort of pathetic and desperate, but at the same time giddy, like a child.

Before she could say anything else, another woman rounded the corner, clutching several volumes and looking frazzled.

'Couldn't help me out here for a second could you, Gin?' she groaned, blowing a stray, light brown curl out of her eyes while attempting to relieve herself of the books into a nearby basket.

'Simple levitation was too much for the great Hermione?' the redhead teased, pulling out her wand and levitating them to their destination.

'Forgot my wand,' the brunette rolled her eyes, 'I forget everything these days, this beast has ruined my brain,' she said, poking her slightly rounded belly in amusement.

'Don't remind me. Al turned her brain to mush less than one month in: she kept forgetting where she left her toothbrush before someone asked her if she'd tried 'Accio' yet,' followed a tall and slim male, with a recognizable jagged scar on his forehead and round frame glasses that made him look like he still could have been attending Hogwarts.

Harry Potter was, of course, recognizable in every way. You'd seen him on posters and hand-outs at Diagon Alley; in person many times at school, seated on the far side of the Great Hall with all the other Gryffindors, and down in the dungeons with Snape and later on, Slughorn. You'd always remembered him as painfully serious and solemn there, but standing right in front of you he looked far less so, smiling and exchanging playful remarks with his wife and friend.

'Sorry,' Ginny broke your train of thought, 'this is Harry Potter, of course and don't believe the stories, even I can beat him at Quidditch,' she smirked, flourishing her hands towards her husband.

'Astoria,' you replied, leaving out the last name all together, 'I think I went to Hogwarts with you, although I was a couple of years younger.'

You prayed the anonymity would stand, recognising that both Hermione and Harry were employed by the Ministry.

'Nice to meet you,' he smiled politely, shaking your hand firmly. If he recognised the name, he didn't show it.

'Hermione Weasley,' the other witch said, reaching out her hand from behind the pile of books she was arranging in a stack.

'I see you've been imprisoned by Mother's Club,' Harry offered, dodging a friendly punch on the arm from his wife, 'have they stopped complaining yet?'

'Very willingly imprisoned, your son is lovely. Sorry, but what did you say his name was again?'

'Oh no Potter, you take this one. I wholeheartedly disagreed with giving our son such a prehistoric name,' Ginny smirked, 'I can't imagine the teasing he'll endure at Hogwarts, and the adoration from all the professors, it will be sickening.'

'Look, it's very respectful!' Harry protested, his lips twitching into a grin, 'His name is Albus Severus.'

You could almost imagine Draco's exact words upon hearing that. _Of course Potter would try and win favour from the dead_. You pushed it to the back of your mind decisively, although you couldn't quite stop your eyebrows from reflexively raising. _Albus Severus_. You wondered what Snape would have made of that.

'I told him it was a bad idea,' Ginny offered, 'and I was hoping to call him something else in secret, but unfortunately it stuck.'

'It sort of suits him,' you smiled, leaning over the little cradle at the stirring child, mesmerized by his tiny hands and short breaths, 'how old-'

'Astoria.'

You thought you were going to have an aneurysm hearing his voice so suddenly, and you snapped your head away from the cradle as fast as your heart leapt to your throat.

He stood at the end of the row of bookshelves, his jaw taut and his face stony. For a moment, you felt the urge to run, to let your legs carry you away from him, standing so still and threatening. You felt a red blush rise to your cheeks and the hot sweat of embarrassment fill you. All of a sudden, you found the floor very interesting.

'Malfoy,' Harry spoke, filling the silence. Strangely, he said it neither condescendingly, nor with any hatred. It was simply an acknowledgement, like some kind of agreement had been struck between them and their acquaintance was strictly neutral.

'Potter,' Draco returned, and embarrassingly, it didn't have the same impartiality in tone. It was more forgiving than she'd ever heard him; however Draco had never inherited his father's soft, aristocratic superiority, and his voice sounded plainly malicious instead, pronouncing the 'r' with a sort of sneer.

Feeling thoroughly caught-out by everyone involved, you decided to cut the tension which hung thick around you, and began your awkward shuffle towards him, like a demure child who had been caught stealing every-flavoured-beans from their sibling.

'Lovely to meet you all,' you offered, raising your eyes to Harry and hoping he would find some kind of silent apology in them.

'Pleasure,' he replied, and you were surprised to find the dislike you anticipated was replaced by something else. Something that looked horribly like pity.

~.~

Draco attempted to drag you along Diagon Alley to the Apparition point, but you fought off his grasp, trying to maintain some of your pride. Your internal monologue became so intense you wondered whether he should be dragging you to St. Mungos instead.

Was it so bad to be caught _talking_ to people? Even if it was Harry Potter and a few of his friends. Even if they were Gryffindors. Even if they were the epitome of victor while your husband was the epitome of failure. Was it such a sin?

You supposed it didn't matter in his eyes. His pride was even greater than that of yours, even when they had so little, collectively, to be proud about, and he was likely, you reasoned, to see this as the ultimate betrayal.

Back at the house, he rounded on you. Draco never initiated arguments, he either stormed off in obvious disagreement, or you sat in silence. There was never the explosion that erupted that afternoon, as soon as they'd gotten within the wrought iron gates, and past the overgrown hedge.

'What were you doing_?_' he hissed, marching down the path.

'Being friendly,' you replied, almost in a whisper to keep from the neighbours hearing.

'To Potter?' he snapped, 'Never knew you two were such good pals.'

'We'd never even _met_.'

'Oh and I can only imagine the special occasion,' he bit back, 'he's got a son now, hasn't he? Another one. No one at the Ministry can shut up about it. Merlin knows why, the world doesn't _need_ another saviour like Potter, if you ask me.'

'You did,' you retorted, under your breath, but he heard you and spun you around, right outside the front door.

'What did you say?' his voice was low, menacing.

'Nothing.'

'Fuck you,' he replied, slamming the door open and marching in, flinging his cloak to the floor and reaching up to pull at his hair.

You felt a surge of something _hot_ fill you, constricting your throat in anger. You let it build for a moment and then struck again, harsh words tumbling out of your mouth in response. If he was going to attack, then surely you couldn't be expected to let the sleeping dogs lie.

'If anyone should be fawning over Potter, shouldn't it be you?' you challenged, anger swelling inside you, 'didn't he save you from Fiendfyre? From a Death Eater, even though you were one of them?'

'My mother saved him from _Voldemort himself_ in the forbidden forest, so I think we're square.'

'Somehow I don't think the actions of others equate as yours, Draco! Stop hiding behind her.'

'Potter's not a saint; and if you think he is, you're just as fucked up everyone else who fawns over him.'

'Fawns?' you replied incredulously, 'well, if that's the case, imagine what people must say about my association with _you_!'

'Why did you bother marrying me then Astoria? You would have done everyone favours by remaining a boring Greengrass, perhaps you could have snatched up Potter? Or perhaps Longbottom?'

'Jealousy doesn't flatter you.'

'Jealous of Longbottom? You're more stupid than you look.'

'You're far duller than Longbottom. You can't even speak to me without going through things we've discussed four hundred times before. You are so under stimulating it's embarrassing; It's a wonder you ever managed to get me pregnant at all.'

'You're disgracefully ungrateful Greengrass. As for _that_ certain snag, sorting it out was the best option, was it not? Being as this household is – _under stimulating_ – it surely would have developed incorrectly, which would probably also be my _fault_.'

'Sorted what out?' you yelled, voice echoing off the high roof of the house.

He stood stock still, breath heaving in and out of his chest, eyes more wild than you'd ever seen them. His jaw was clenched so tight you wondered whether his teeth were crumbling under themselves, his hair stood at odd angles from where he had torn at it.

He looked legitimately murderous. 'You never went to that appointment did you?' he forced out between closed teeth.

No reply was necessary. You bit down nervously on your bottom lip.

'What have you _done, _Astoria?'

'Are you referring to the fact that I will simply not_ allow _you to run away from yet another thing you're scared of?'

'I don't want to be a _fucking_ _father_ Astoria! I don't want your baby, I don't want you in my house, I don't owe Potter _shit_ and I'M NOT FUCKING SCARED.'

'You're wrong.'

'I'M NOT!' he screamed, and before it had even registered in your brain, he had overturned the giant mahogany table, sliding all the silverware and vases off, crashing to the stone floor and shattering into a million pieces of glass.

For a moment the world stopped, and the pieces of clear, glassy matter winked in the sunlight casting rainbow prisms of light that splashed the walls like technicolour wallpaper. The silver serving plates clattered noisily to the floor, spinning in warped circles until they found their proper place. The white table runner lay strewn amongst the clutter, looking strangely innocent amongst the mess that lay around it.

When time resumed, he was gone.

~.~

You woke with a wet face, the tears sliding down your nose and cheeks and embedding themselves into your hair. You felt almost weightless, and then you realised that it was more like lightheaded. You opened your eyes a fraction, and then tightly shut them, feeling the world spinning around you in a hazy stream of light.

You could feel the cool sheets below your spine and thighs, as well as the softness of the pillow pressed beside your face, its creases making harsh lines on your cheek. Something warm was behind you, solid and real, and when you rolled your head to the left slightly, your face melted into the soft, fabric swathe of robes. They smelt familiarly like the peppermint soap you had in the shower and the nameless, but recognisable cologne. It was comfortable and familiar, until you opened your eyes and dreamily stared above you.

The lights, still woozy above you had entranced you, so all you saw at first was a black mass of robes and a pale blob, a face without features. Your limbs felt heavy and useless, fatigued from anger, hurt and frustration and you probably couldn't have risen if you tried. You stared back up at his face, suddenly noticing that the wetness that ran down your cheeks hadn't fallen from your eyes.

The truth was that you'd never seen Draco _really_ cry. He wasn't one for raw emotions, unless it was fury. He was one to closet emotions and feelings away with the truth, and set them on fire so they'd never return, instead of simply locking the door. The tears plodded down heavily on your cheeks, and ran off you like little streams of guilt and regret, budding again in the corners of his grey eyes. He breathed heavily, not as if to sob, but simply to survive, looking at you, and back at himself, like he couldn't quite comprehend who you were; _what _you were.

There was a long silence, as his sharp cheekbones and mussed blond hair came into focus, partially obstructed by the morning sun. It was as if neither of you had known what to say, or how to say it. He had never apologised before, it wasn't like Draco to do so, and you wondered if he was trying to make you understand; to know he was apologetic, just so he wouldn't have to force the words out of his mouth. You wouldn't settle for that, and it was plain. The silence wrapped you up and constricted you, every word he didn't say forcing a strange lump in your throat onwards, your teeth setting together uncomfortably.

Indignantly, you turned your head back to its pillow and flipped your body away from his. It was a fluid movement; something to display your discontent. Pride had grown on you, and it was a fickle thing.

He tentatively rested a hand on your back, spreading his fingers and running them up and down your spine rhythmically. It soothed you, and involuntarily you arched into his touch, craving the shivering sensations that were spreading across your body. Truth be told, you hated it when he left you. You needed each other in some warped way. When he stormed off or when you constructed walls to hide you and hurt him, the earth seemed to spin off its axis; everything was awkward and cold. Loneliness suited neither of you.

The world felt mal-aligned at that moment. A moment where he looked so unlike himself; so weak and incapable. Guilt wracked his features as a hand instinctively rose to his hair, tugging at the back of it as if it would relieve the stress. You felt like you had to protect him in that moment. Like he didn't really know what he was doing or where he was going, and you were going to make it all okay again.

'I don't know what I'm doing Astoria' he whispered, slicing the tension open softly.

'Neither do I.'

'I told you' he started, 'I told you I'd be an atrocious parent.'

You didn't agree, but you let the silence wash over you. It was a statement that needed no confirmation, and you knew he wasn't looking for a rebuttal; he wanted to persuade you that he couldn't, that he _wouldn't._

'I can't be what you want or what my father wanted, and I can't make you happy Astoria. If I can't make you happy, imagine what chance I have with whatever is in you right now. I have no chance.'

'And maybe you're right. Maybe I am…scared. I can't be the hero like Potter and _illogically_ put other people before myself. People like that, they've always been fucking _better_ than me, and all I had is my money and my power and my respectability and now I can't even have that.'

Somewhere in the tangle of words, you think there was an apology of sorts. It was hidden behind defensive words and frustrated enunciation, but it was there, and for now you'd let it slide.

He dragged his cloak over his eyes and you expected to feel some kind of intrinsic adulation at being _right_ about his fear. But nothing was right in that moment, nothing was right about you, and nothing was right about him. If you cut back all the layers that you each constructed, you found fear and anger, and an overwhelming loneliness that resonated between you and drew you together.

You didn't say anything then, mostly because you didn't have an answer to his statement. A small part of you thought at that moment you might have actually been going a bit loopy.

He bent down and kissed you softly on the forehead, just as he did after every dinner, and you smiled involuntarily.

'We never have to fight again.'

_(And you almost felt like telling him that would be incessantly boring and that you preferred fighting to pretending.)_

'I need you,' he murmured.

It wasn't quite 'I love you,' but just then, it was enough.


	3. O is for Overtness

For being blunt and not drinking too much whisky

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><p>AN: This, I'm sure, will look a lot better once my beta has had a chance to read it. As it turns out, I'm far too impatient and three days is all it takes to press the 'upload' button.

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><p>The truth of the matter was, no one knew what was happening. That was clear from the beginning. The facts, however, sought to undermine Draco's blissful ignorance, with a snowballing of events which could only have been the product of a growing foetus. Unfortunately for Draco, wishing the problem would <em>just disappear<em> was about as futile as arguing over the matter.

And so, with his self-imposed dark cloud of inevitability hanging over his head, Draco's protests gradually subsided over the following days into tactless comments and incoherent mutterings. It was clear that he had no desire to provoke another outburst, but, true to his form, also had no intent to elaborate on, resolve, or discuss the matter in any way. It was so _Draco_ to pursue the path of avoidance, whilst making his disenchantment with you extraordinarily plain.

That was not to say that he completely avoided _you_, simply the _topic_, which had thus far managed to remain just below the surface of your significantly less superficial day-to-day contact. It had managed to remain so until that Friday in February, when circumstances began to force their way upon you – very physically.

Friday _was_ to be an extraordinary day of sorts, anyway. The argument of January (never to be mentioned again by a solid non-verbal pact), had somewhat alleviated your loneliness. It might have been the guilt of upsetting you and breaking the prize dining room table, but you preferred to think of it as his conscience, which drove Draco to begin an effort to make life a little less dull, for the both of you. After Daphne had written with the news that she would be attending the annual Puddlemere United and Tutshill Tornadoes exhibition match with her devoted (an undeniably sickening) husband, Draco had revelled in the challenge of usurping their Ministry Box invitations.

You supposed it was something of an old school rivalry, but Theodore and Draco had never seen eye-to-eye again after your sister's wedding. Of course, it had begun far before that, probably fostered by mother's doting over the _appropriateness_ of Daphne's choice in fiancé, and your slightly _undesirable _pick. Family affairs at the Greengrass estate had always been very refined, but beneath the chink of china and the scraping of fine silver, an undeniable competition had ensued.

Theodore's father practically _owned_ the broom-making business. Draco's father owned half of Wizarding England, but then again, as Nott hadn't hesitated to point out, Lucius had also owned a cell in Azkaban. Draco had no siblings to divide up an illustrious estate with, but then again, Theodore had _drive_ and _passion_, indicated, as mother had pointed out, by his willingness to occupy an influential ministry position. Holding down employment was not exactly Draco's forte.

So it had continued, until the day when that letter arrived, and Draco had _somehow_ managed to procure tickets from an auror – of which he wouldn't name - one of the world's greatest ironies. But as it was, you found the motive behind such actions wasn't as important, as you were finally given the chance to engage in something half exciting.

Unfortunately that morning, your body had other plans.

Rolling over into the cloudy mass of pillows which adorned your bed, your eyes opened that morning glancing up at the high, white ceiling. Shafts of morning sunlight streamed over your body, bathing you in the satisfying, winter brilliance.

Stretching your arms gingerly above your head and pointing and flexing your toes, you roused your body into consciousness, and prepared to brave the slightly-too-cold stone floors. That was, until your hands found their way onto your stomach.

You inhaled shortly as your lithe fingers ran over the definite raise in your abdomen, alien under the comfortable feeling of your own skin. You supposed that it was simply a product of the weight-gain associated with pregnancy before, but when you had laid out and properly stretched, it was obvious that the lump was more than a simple excess of fatty tissue. It was _hard_ almost, as if a band stretched out across your lower stomach. You gave it a curious prod.

Revelling in the foreignness of it all, you stood just as gingerly (gasping slightly at the temperature change the floors brought), and padded into the adjoining bathroom, plucking your wand from the bedside table on the way. Vain as it may have been, you flourished the twelve inches of willow and smiled, satisfied, as the brown mass of curls contorted themselves into a neat ponytail of ringlets, stretching from the crown of your heat to your shoulder blades. In some ways, it was the one thing that Hogwarts had taught you to meticulously perfect.

Wriggling the creased, satin slip which you used as a nightgown above your hips, you stared back at your reflection, dissatisfied when the change you could _feel_ was not immediately obvious. Pacing into different positions in front of the mirror, you attempted to examine it from all angles until you were satisfied that you weren't simply imagining things too early. You always had had a rather active imagination; mother had forever reprimanded you for daydreaming.

If you were even slightly honest with yourself, you _knew_ that he probably wouldn't have been appeased by this new revelation. However, starved as you were of any other outlet, you all but skipped down the staircase to the dining room, where you found him, predictably, pumpkin juice and coffee set out in front of him and the Daily Prophet obscuring his face.

At the sound of your footsteps he collapsed the sheets of paper with moving pictures slightly, just enough to expose his face, blonde hair combed fastidiously over his forehead, and reading glasses balanced on his slim nose. He always maintained the ability to make you feel significantly under prepared. Feeling an odd surge of self-consciousness, you reached one hand up to feel the pillow creases which still adorned the left side of your face and the other to tug down on the rising hem of your night-gown. He raised one blonde eyebrow in bemusement, the shadow of a smirk playing on his lips.

'Good god Astoria, did you _really_ just fall out of bed and down the staircase?'

Furrowing your eyebrows slightly at his jibe, you pressed down the flimsy piece of fabric covering your body, ignoring the annoying flush of embarrassment threatening to flood your cheeks.

'Never mind your under-dress, thank Merlin you managed to attend to your hair,' he continued, noticing your discomfort. As irritating as it was, the playful manner in which he addressed you was refreshing. Draco had rarely had the inclination to act so similar to his school-boy self since your marriage – since the war in fact, which had seemed to suck something vital out of him.

'I wanted to show you something,' you began, hand instinctively covering the lump.

His eyes followed the movement; his gaze resting intently over the pale flesh of your upper thighs and the curve of your hips, barely noticeable under the swathe of satin. The look in the grey irises broke into your consciousness with a renewed curiosity – there was a sort of hunger to their gaze, a kind of intention that they had not shown in some time…

And then it was gone, covered by a cloudy indifference, as they rested on the emerging lump you had exposed with your fingers, taught across the satin fabric.

'Lovely, Astoria,' he replied, flicking the newspaper back up indignantly.

Realising what a mistake it was to even broach the topic with someone who was so uninterested, you quickly released the shift and patted it down over your thighs, your face falling. Of course it was erroneous to think that Draco _cared._ He might have cared what would happen to you, but so far he had been exceptionally plain about his feelings towards the child.

Hot tears prickled at the sides of your eyes for some reason. You would have put it down to pregnancy hormones, but that wouldn't have saved you any embarrassment. Next time, the news would be sent to Daphne in a letter – without the instant gratification and excitement, but excitement none-the-less which was more than you ever received from Draco.

Turning brusquely on your heel you felt a surge of childishness. As your heavy footfalls stomped up the staircase again, your discontent only became plainer, and you felt somewhat like throwing something into a wall and watching it break with your resolve.

~.~

Honestly, you really despised Quidditch. Your social schedule and school work always managed to miraculously coincide with Quidditch matches during Hogwarts, and you'd never recalled an overwhelming sense of house pride when Slytherin had won matches. The only worthwhile component of them seemed to be the dungeon parties, and even they had grown tedious over the years. Not to mention that more often than not, it was bleak disappointment that filled the common room – Gryffindor always seemed to have the uncanny ability to procure large amounts of luck when it came to their matches. You thought perhaps it had something to do with Potter's seeking; he always managed to capture the snitch in the most unconventional of ways.

However, despite any previous ignorance, the thought of a professional exhibition match sparked a sense of excitement. It meant a sort of benign and innocent adventure that you took too much for granted in your childhood. Daphne would also be there, which despite her egotism, would at least provide you with a few hours of stimulating conversation and shameful gossip.

Gossip was in some ways, exactly what you required. A distraction from the uncomfortable, mutual frustration which was sparked by that morning's incident. Instead, it would be a familiar dip into the world which you had left – something that you didn't wholeheartedly regret, but undoubtedly missed.

The luxury of close friends, for one. When you married a hermit, you tended to unintentionally cut off your own relationships with others. There were no more old and proper tea parties, formal occasions, or even casual dinner dates. You supposed that Millicent Bulstrode and Cassiopeia Vance barely remembered your name, let alone thought about your past escapades at such events. You were dissolved into a shadow, a background piece of useless history that no one cared to remember. In some ways, you couldn't blame them. Your choice to marry was entirely your fault.

'Are you ready?' he asked, stiffly leaning against the balustrade along the staircase.

'Naturally,' you replied, letting the irritation slip fluidly into your speech.

He descended the stairs carefully, smoothing his suit jacket with one hand when he reached the bottom, and grasping his cane in the other. His attempts to emulate Lucius were almost ridiculous. It wasn't that he looked outrageous; rather, he didn't seem to _fit_ that demeaning and highly narcissistic character. It was as if he didn't quite believe it enough himself to exude it with confidence.

Extending an arm towards you, he faltered. Frowning slightly in obvious disapproval he cocked a sarcastic, blonde eyebrow.

'Are you going to at least _pretend_ to enjoy the comforts of an upper-class lifestyle, Astoria?'

'For you, anything,' you replied icily, and grasping his arm, you twisted on the spot momentarily before your feet left the floor.

~.~

As it turned out, you enjoyed the game more than you probably ever had done. Perhaps it was the context of your relatively limited lifestyle which made you appreciate such things, or maybe the fact that you had matured considerably over the course of the years and a life-changing war. Either way, Quidditch seemed far more enjoyable that day.

Daphne had, as it turned out, come down with a bad case of scrofungulus two days previously, so aside from Pansy Parkinson's idle chatter which had alerted you to this particular fact, there was little, substantial gossip to be enjoyed.

Aside from Parkinson, who had stopped only for a short and Draco-centric chat, no one else had bothered to approach you in the Ministry stands. At first, it seemed as if it was Draco which deterred them, however after he took the invitation to accompany Blaise to the balcony for a cigarette, it had become evident that perhaps it was simply _you_. Chalking it up to simple ignorance (_you were rather plain in some ways)_; you sat there patiently, idly pulling one loose curl around your finger and fiddling with your wand.

It was only when you stood to use the bathroom (simply for something to _do_), that a gentle tap on the shoulder had alleviated you from your boredom. Spinning around, you faced the familiar red-haired and youthful face of Ginny Potter, and simultaneously felt the faint flush of embarrassment creep up to your cheekbones. The last (and only) time you had spoken had ended awkwardly.

Fortunately, she struck you as having that kind of demeanour which seemed to brush such awkward things aside. Perhaps it was the product of having six brothers which made her immune to that kind of social discomfort, or the fact that she was a _Weasley_, which undoubtedly left her in a position for being ostracised. Despite that, she didn't seem to _care_, which was sort of admirable, in a way. In some ways, you wished you had that ability to throw caution to the wind, and engage in things which other people might have degraded you for. It was a very _Gryffindor_ trait.

'Astoria,' she smiled warmly, sticking out her hand.

This motion struck you as strange. Usually it was the men that greeted each other with a handshake, and personally, you'd never been approached with one, nor did you know what constituted a _bad_ or _good_ handshake, although you'd heard it being discussed before. Usually women of pureblood society greeted each other with a curt nod, or if you were particularly well acquainted, a chaste kiss on the cheek. Ginny Potter, you realised, was a very strange sort of woman. You decided that you liked that, taking her hand and giving it a soft shake.

'Walk with me,' she continued, not waiting for a verbal recognition from you before taking your arm and leading you out the door of the box. Before you knew it, she had apparated you to outside the stands, into a park area which adjoined the stadium. A muggle couple walked past a few hundred metres off, completely ignorant to the large, domineering structure in the middle of the countryside.

'Sorry,' she apologised, 'I wanted to talk to you, and it tends to be rather _loud_ in there.'

'Of course,' you stated, still a little shaken up from the speed in which she had kidnapped you.

'How are you then?' she asked, taking your arm again and walking slowly along the path that ran around the stadium.

You felt oddly at ease with the woman, who was, after all, a stranger to you. The air was thick with unspoken secrets that you had hidden for years by yourself: the boredom and loneliness in your relationship, the unknown fate of your child, the fact that Draco was becoming so detached it wasn't clear if he would allow it to be raised under his roof. All of those unspoken words threatened to tumble from your lips into her ear, simply because you _had_ no one else to tell. You needed, at that moment, someone that would really listen; someone that would care, even in the slightest.

'Fine,' you smiled, thinly. It was the typical, socially correct thing for you to say. It wouldn't be proper for you to continue to put your faith in someone you barely knew, even though you wished you could. Unfortunately, it seemed social graces weren't Ginny Potter's forte; nor did she seem to care much for them. It was exceedingly plain from her bluntness.

'You didn't seem fine, you know, the other day,' she stated baldly.

You were a little taken aback, and honestly, had no idea how to approach the situation. You were slightly inept at blatantly lying, but then again, keeping secrets was in your nature.

'That was just a misunderstanding,' you said, sugar-coating the situation and trying to create a topic change, 'how long do you think it will be until they notice that we're gone?'

'A while,' she said, turning her head to face you, a worrisome, intense look written across her features. 'You can tell me, you know, I know there's no one else for you to tell.'

'I'm sorry,' you stuttered, tripping over her words which were slow to reach your brain, 'I have nothing to tell. It was simply-'

'Yes, a misunderstanding. I heard you the first time,' she said almost irritably, shoving her red hair behind her ears, 'and I don't believe you.'

A kind of unprecedented shock was written plainly across your features. No one had ever had the audacity to be so plain with you. It was so disconcerting and uncomfortable, but it only encouraged the unspoken words to bubble to the surface.

'I'm sorry?' you squeaked, in a small voice.

'Look, I know no one has probably ever confronted you about this, but I knew Malfoy – sorry, Draco - in his school years,' she begun again, undeterred by your shocked expression. 'I still couldn't say that I like him in the slightest, but when I saw your expression the other day, well, I worried about you. Slightly strange because we hardly know each other, I know.'

'I-I,' you stuttered, 'well-'

'To be honest, I've never been good at skirting around the _bullshit_ of social graces. I guess that's sort of clear. I'm not trying to impede on your personal life, believe me, but I suppose I'm the sort of person who believes that a woman like yourself ought to be treated properly, and the other day, well, it just didn't seem like you were,' she explained, pausing heavily between words.

'Draco,' you began, a little calmer, 'he treats me fine, I mean, it's sort of warranted every now and again.'

She looked incredulously at you, 'I want you to tell me if he's hurting you Astoria, no one deserves to be treated like that.'

'What?' you exclaimed, hand jumping to your mouth, 'no! It's not like that, I promise!'

She cocked an eyebrow disbelievingly, and you pulled her hand to stop walking, turning to face her.

'I swear to Merlin! Draco, he would never hurt me like that,' you said solemnly, 'he- well, he may not be the most loving of husbands, but god no, he would never harm me.'

'My apologies then,' she said, turning back to walk, 'only, he seemed very cold towards you, you know? I'm not used to seeing that in a relationship, perhaps I am biased by my own experiences.'

'Experiences?' you asked, probing for an explanation.

'Well, you know, with Harry.'

'Tell me about him,' you asked, feeling all niceties had somewhat gone down the drain by now.

'Well,' she began, 'It's sort of difficult, you know, with all the notoriety, but it works. Harry _understands_ me, you know? It's okay for me to have a Quidditch career, because he's always wanted me to chase what I want. I'm sort of spoiled with understanding.'

'But what about looking after him? What about house-work and all that? Surely Harry needed someone to tend to him after the- well, after the war.'

'Of course,' she said gently, 'but we all have _scars_ Astoria, it doesn't mean we can't go on to achieve things. The past shouldn't stop us from moving to the future.'

'But isn't that _hard?_'

'Bloody hard,' she noted cheekily, 'but it's still important to get on with things.'

'So, you played Quidditch?' you asked, 'but didn't that take you away from your husband for long periods of time?'

'Yes,' she sighed, 'it was hard. But he understands; I had to do something for myself, prove that I could be something other than just Harry Potter's wife.'

'Did you?'

'Naturally,' she smirked, 'I was brilliant.'

There was a pause as you thought about what next to ask. Hearing about the lives of others was a luxury you didn't get too often. Hearing about a life of someone who has half interesting was a downright rarity. In all honesty, the older woman intrigued you.

'Why did you stop? Playing Quidditch I mean,' you began again.

'Children,' she smiled softly, the corners of her lips picking up in contentment, 'and Harry of course.'

'And he was alright with that?' you asked, 'you know, when you decided to have them?'

'We decided together, of course,' she stated, looking slightly confused.

You felt your stomach fall a little, with guilt. In a way, you had forced the pregnancy on Draco, and speaking to someone else about it, even hypothetically, made it seem all _wrong._

'Oh,' you said, feeling a little stupid, 'naturally.'

'Does Draco- well, does he love you?' she asked quietly, searching your eyes for an answer.

'I,' you began, feeling your throat choke up in trepidation, 'I think so.'

'I see,' she remarked, face contemplative. 'And is that enough for you?'

There was a pregnant pause.

'It used to be,' you replied, surprised by your honesty, 'but circumstances have changed, and now, I'm not sure it is.'

She nodded, as if to agree, and the pair of you carried on walking in silence for a while.

'Should we return now?' you asked, looking up to see the sky darkening.

'If you wish,' she smiled comfortingly, 'the drinks ought to be wrapping up soon anyway.'

You took her arm, and felt the twist in your stomach, as she transported you back to the box.

~.~

'Astoria?' he said, finding you in a matter of seconds after you had walked in the box door, 'where on earth have you been? I've been wanting to leave this bloody thing for an hour now and you weren't even-'

'I was on a walk,' you said coolly, finding the bluntness of Ginny Potter had somewhat rubbed off on you.

'Yes well, can we please go now?' he asked, holding out his arm for you.

'In a minute,' you said, as he cocked a blonde eyebrow in surprise, 'I must say goodbye to someone first.'

Feeling a sort of thrill at dispelling the meekness with which you usually followed in the presence of others, you strode away from him purposefully to shake Ginny's hand again.

'We must have tea next week,' she insisted, 'I'll owl you.'

Feeling strangely like no was not an answer she would accept, you smiled graciously and returned to the arm of your husband, standing with a disapproving look on his face.

'Really, Astoria?'

'Really, Draco.'

~.~

He stalked off to the library in obvious discontentment after you apparated home. You let him go because, something Ginny had done or said had made you realise you ought not to be scurrying after him, begging for approval. It was like your pride had been somewhat restored.

You thought that your strength was evident from the fights you'd had over the past month, or obvious from your immovable stance on the pregnancy. But that wasn't real strength, you realised, that was just stubbornness. You could argue to your heart's content, but you were still desperately seeking Draco's approval and recognition, and still abided by his archaic, unspoken rules.

Leaving the house without him, for one, was something that Ginny would definitely not stand. Or fraternising with people he didn't particularly care for. It was time for you to be your own person, and then perhaps you could be something _more_ than Draco Malfoy's wife.

He emerged, two hours later for dinner. You'd swiftly thrown a roast in the oven and steamed some vegetables, setting them out on the table for him.

'Where's your plate?' he asked, when she'd set for one.

'I've already eaten,' you replied honestly. It was eight o'clock for Merlin's sakes and being pregnant had encouraged you to eat far more than you usually did. It seemed like the baby was hungry _all the time._

'Without me,' he stated, his face growing stony.

'I was hungry, and you were…absent.'

'You might have called me.'

'I was busy.'

'Clearly.'

You sat in silence for a few minutes, broken only by the scrapes of his fork on the plate.

'So,' he began again, 'Ginny Potter is you're new _confident_?' It sounded both degrading and sarcastic.

'She is a friend,' you stated, hoping you sounded more convinced than you felt, holding your head high.

'Well, let's hope Potter is getting a kick out of this then,' he sneered, dropping his fork and knife, 'knowing all my personal details will surely satisfy his endless curiosity.'

'It's not like that, Draco.'

'Of _course_ it isn't, Astoria,' he replied, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

You tried not to rise to the bait. 'I don't want to argue about this Draco. She's an acquaintance, that's all.'

'You could have chosen someone less controversial,' he grumbled, but never-the-less dropped the issue.

~.~

You found him in the sitting room after dinner, swirling the scotch around his short glass. He was watching the half molten ice blocks spin in the amber liquid, as he softly rotated his wrists, evidently deep in thought.

You weren't really sure why you decided to find him. You weren't going looking for him, and two hours previously you'd insisted you weren't simply going to follow him around the house, but you were lonely and simply, he was the only company you _had_ just then.

He looked across at you pensively; taking a sip from the glass and placing it gently back on the table. A small sigh escaped his lips, although it didn't sound like exasperation.

'What is it Astoria?' he queried, folding his hands across each other on his knee.

'Nothing in particular,' you replied, trying to look nonchalant, 'I just fancied some company.'

He raised an eyebrow. 'I thought my company was no longer enough for you.'

'Well, you cannot expect me to be content with just one relationship, could you?' you said, a little more defensively.

He sighed again. 'I had hoped it would be.'

'Well, you have Blaise don't you, and Gregory?'

'Yes, I suppose.'

'Well then, don't I deserve to have friends as well?'

'This isn't simply about what you _deserve_, Astoria. Besides, you have Daphne. I never had siblings.'

You snorted in annoyance. 'That hardly seems _fair_ Draco.'

'Unfortunately life isn't fair _sweet heart_,' he said, stressing his growing irritation.

You clenched your jaw derisively and summoned the bottle of whisky. You were rarely a drinker, but if this was going to turn into a fully-fledged argument you were going to need some artificial courage.

'What are you doing?' he demanded, standing up as you uncorked the bottle.

'Drinking away my sorrows, _darling_,' you replied, lifting the bottle to your lips.

'Where is this coming from? Stop it!' he demanded, plucking the bottle hastily from your hands, sloshing a bit of whisky over the carpet in his hurry.

You felt a surge of anger. It wasn't _fair_ that you couldn't engage in half the behaviour he did. You couldn't have friends, you couldn't leave the house, and you couldn't bloody have one drink, could you? Ginny had only served to fire your resolve that day, and after the treatment you had gotten at breakfast this morning, all the anger in the world seemed like it was suddenly warranted.

'Planning to control my drinking and eating habits now too Draco?' you began, wringing your hands together in annoyance.

'Hardly Astoria, how could you-'

'How could I what? Have some semblance of control over myself?' you started again, anger brewing.

'No, it's about-'

'About social correctness? Well _you_ drink Draco, why can't I?'

'Are you _mental, _I just said that-'

'Yes, well, sometimes I don't _care_ what you say! Sometimes I just want to be someone other than Draco Malfoy's wife, you know? Be my own person! Be Astoria!' you exclaimed, rising to your feet.

He looked a little wounded, beneath the outrage. Guilt tugged at your stomach, but you pushed it away.

'I want to be _more _than just your wife, Draco. I need to do something for myself sometimes, and this,' you said, motioning to the whisky bottle in his hand, 'is simply an indicator of how you can't stand to let me.'

'It's _nothing_ of the sort,' he replied, eyes narrow. 'This, even superficially, isn't even about your right to drink Astoria, how could you be so blind?'

'Blind?' you said incredulously, 'well then _Draco_, please enlighten me to what it is about?'

'Well, you can't-' he began, a little quieter.

'I _bloody well _can-' you interjected.

'Oh for _fucks sake_!' he exclaimed, crossing the distance between you quickly.

You shied away automatically, expecting some kind retribution. The exclamation was, however, more in annoyance rather than downright anger, because instead of shaking you up, he placed one hand on the small of your back and drew you into his embrace.

It was lovely, it really was. The familiar smell of his cologne and the expensive coth of his robes which you sunk your face into comfortingly greeted you like an old friend. The warmth of his hand and chest, tender through your own robes soothed your anger like water on a flame. You felt the irritation flicker and die inside your chest, replaced by the frantic beats of your heart.

Closeness was something you treasured. It was also something you never seemed to get very often.

Stepping back for a minute he placed a finger under your chin, and lifted it up to meet his eyes.

'Are you going to listen to me now?' he asked, smirking slightly at your meek expression.

'No,' you replied, attempting to sound defiant, but it came out rather weak.

'Well,' he began, the smirk still reaching over his features, 'I might just have to make you.'

'Go on.'

'You can't drink when…well, when you're _pregnant_ can you?'

Your breath caught in your throat in surprise. You certainly hadn't expected that response, and in all honesty, you hadn't even thought about _that._

'I-I,' you began, a little taken aback.

'I thought so,' he snorted, ruffling the back of your hair a little, 'If there's going to be another Malfoy, I certainly can't have him deformed on account of my wife's alcohol problem.'

Again, you looked up at him flabbergasted. You could hardly help the smile that was creeping onto your face however. Starting vaguely at the corners of your lips and moving along horizontally across the pink flesh of your mouth.

'I didn't think you cared,' you whispered, eyes wide.

He rolled his eyes theatrically. 'Well of course I bloody well cared, Astoria. You're my wife for Merlin's sakes, what did you expect?'

'I'm not – well, you didn't – I mean, you didn't want _that_,' you stumbled over the words hastily.

'Well, honestly I didn't. But it wasn't as if you gave me much time to get used to the fact did you? I'm still…_undecided_, as to my feelings on the matter Astoria, but after I saw you with the Potter girl today, well, I got the feeling that whatever is coming for me, it's not stopping.'

He cocked an eyebrow at your face, plastered with a toothy smile and released his fingers from under your chin, pulling you in to his chest again.

'It's going to kill me, I'm _almost_ sure of it.'

'You need to stop being so _dramatic_,' you teased, as he pressed his lips to the top of your head.

'You need to stop springing surprises on me.'

'Wouldn't life be infinitely boring otherwise?'

'Perhaps,' he sighed, and you yawned.

'Tired, princess?' he teased, stepping back from you and taking your hand firmly.

You nodded softly, and squeezed his, still grinning.

'To bed then,' he smirked.

'What about the whisky?' you asked, 'aren't you going to finish your glass?'

He flourished his wand, and levitated both the glass and bottle to the cabinet behind the sofa.

'I'll get them in the morning,' he smiled softly, 'after all; drinking without you would hardly be _fair_ would it, Astoria?'


	4. R is for Reconnecting

Please excuse my extreme tardiness. Please also excuse the length, I had to ease my way back into writing.

* * *

><p>For rekindling passion, that you once thought long lost.<p>

* * *

><p>You found out fairly quickly that your pregnancy wasn't very typical. Atypical in the sense that you didn't spend hours of your life cuddling the toilet, or having a bucket attached to your person at all times. Atypical in the sense that you didn't explode in uncontrollable frustration at everything that didn't suit your needs or desires.<p>

(You had suspected that all women weren't as volatile, but Daphne had always avoided pregnancy with that excuse. Merlin knew that she would have committed multiple homicides in the course of child bearing.)

Still, your calmness put Draco on edge a little. It was as if he was waiting for a volcano to explode. So, despite his noticeable improvements in attitude towards child rearing over the past month, you had seen much less of him than you would have liked.

He tended to spend more time in the study, working late hours. Then he rose early, around six am, to exercise (although his lightening-pace metabolism never required it in order to maintain his thin, almost fragile form), before showering and leaving for work with nothing more than a chaste kiss on your forehead. Despite these obvious attempts at avoidance, the dinner-time conversation had become markedly more interesting, and for that, you were thankful.

He was still prickly and moody, which was honestly the _same_ Draco that you had tentatively fallen in love with. But he was a little less detached, and in those fleeting moments of precious conversation, you began to touch on subjects that you never had before. It was as if he was reaching behind the black sheet of oblivion, and revealing parts of himself that had never been on display. You could always tell when something of the sort was going to come out, or be spoken of, because he said them quietly, and with long pauses, as if gauging for your response.

He mentioned Lucius, voluntarily, one night for the first time in a number of years. Perhaps for the very first time with you (and not in the context of their marriage arrangements). It was often difficult to differentiate between what you had heard from everyone else about Lucius and Draco's tainted relationship, and what he had confided in you. As his wife, that was sort of a shameful admission, however you supposed that lies and secrets surrounded all of Draco's life, and this was no different.

It also surprised you greatly that night, when he suggested that Narcissa would be interested in visiting to 'observe' your pregnancy. Of course, only Draco could phrase something so meaningful in such clinical terms. You suppose you inferred from that statement that he had bothered telling his parents of the news, which was in all respects, a monumental step.

So when no mention was made of Lucius, you decided to bluntly ask. In reality, there was little better way at getting through to Draco, and this method had served you well in the duration of your pregnancy (which had a long history of asking or telling Draco things he didn't particularly want to hear).

'And what of Lucius, Draco?'

'What of him?' he sighed, suddenly very interested in the peas he was pushing around his otherwise empty plate.

'He wouldn't be visiting?' You countered, unwilling to drop the issue.

'Astoria, you know that mother and him have been separated for quite some time now,' he stated, exasperation evident in his voice.

'I take it you didn't bother owling him?' you pushed, testing the waters. In all honesty, you weren't quite sure how far you could run with such a sensitive topic.

'No.'

At first, it seemed that this had been a blunt ending to a potentially intriguing conversation, before he mashed a pea into the fine, white china of the dinner plate and softly spoke again.

'He doesn't deserve to be bothered with.'

'Are you sure you don't want to just ask?' you pushed again, 'he is _your_ father after all, Draco.'

'An awful one,' he remarked dryly, stabbing another pea violently with the end of his fork, 'and I don't want him anywhere in the vicinity of my future son, lest he contract some kind of non-desirable Malfoy traits in utero, which is all my father consists of.'

You thought, fleetingly, of mentioning the almost valiant defence of Lucius that Draco had evoked, almost two months back when you were still arguing about the very existence of the child. Although it would have made an interesting point, you were content to steer clear of anything harping back to the angry outbursts, and instead played along with his dubious remark.

'I wasn't aware Malfoy traits were highly contagious,' you smiled wryly, arching a thin eyebrow in his direction. 'But then again, I was also unaware I was carrying a boy.'

'You thought the last remaining heir to the Malfoy fortune was to be a girl?' he said, finally raising his eyes from the peas in front of him, with the smallest of smirks written on his thin face, 'unlikely.'

'And why is that?' you probed, a look of mock shock crossing your features.

'There hasn't been a female child in over six generations,' he countered.

'Well, that would shock Lucius all the more, would it not?' you teased.

'Very true,' Draco remarked, raising his goblet in front of him, 'to the Malfoy heir, who may well just be the most unusual one yet.'

~.~

As it turned out, Narcissa was busy with social commitments for another two weeks before she could arrange to come out to Devon. So in the interim, you got to worry about ways to please the only woman that Draco had ever loved, as well as attend a scheduled Healer appointment at Saint Mungos, and trying to capture your elusive husband in the fleeting moments between work, sleep and study.

Capturing was proving the most difficult out of the three. Draco seemed to have stuck to his routine well. You had an issue with that, and it wasn't due to the fact that there were urgent matters to discuss, or you wanted to gain more valuable bonding time. You valued your solitude as well, which was partially why you enjoyed living with Draco.

It was due to another urge that you had found to be the hallmark of your pregnancy. It wasn't gut wrenching nausea, coma-inducing fatigue or a temper that was quicker to flare than an incendio charm. It was another, rather embarrassing urge, which involved vivid dreams which made you wake with hot flushes, and otherwise want to rip the expensive suits off Draco's thin frame.

Of course, he was overwhelmingly oblivious to any of that, due to his patterns of avoidance, which left you high and dry and _increasingly frustrated_.

So when his inconceivably accurate body-clock woke him at six am, you were careful not to fall back asleep. Instead, you rolled over, propped your head up with one arm, and gazed at him sleepily as he changed into his loose exercise shorts and dug around in a drawer, before cursing and _accio_-ing his grey jumper.

'Have you ever considered that perhaps you stick a bit too strictly to routine, Draco?'

'Go back to sleep Astoria,' he said, although there was no cold commanding tone to his voice, and his features twisted into a small smile.

'I'm...not…sleepy,' you protested, through two, unconvincing yawns.

He smirked, sitting down on the bed next to you as you lay back on the silky smooth sheets. You tried valiantly to keep your eyes open but six was far too early for a pureblood princess brought up on luxury and a late-night lifestyle.

'You've convinced me,' he murmured softly, although the sarcasm ran rich through his tone.

Predictably, he leant over to kiss your forehead, and really, that's all the encouragement you needed. The warm, surprisingly soft body and the musky, morning scent seemed so enticing to a woman who's every sense seemed to be in overdrive.

Instinctually, your hand found its way out of the tangle of bed sheets and onto the nape of his neck, softly willing him towards you. He startled at the touch, and began to raise his eyebrows quizzically, but you took full advantage of the fact that his head was mere inches from your own, and pressed your lips tentatively against his for just a moment, gauging his reaction.

(After all, your desires might have been driving you absolutely insane, but you still half-expected rejection, even after Draco's change of heart).

When you pulled away, you were surprised to see that his eyelids had fluttered closed for a moment, as if he had enjoyed your closeness. When the mesh of light brown lashes opened again however, the strange hue of blue and grey stared back at you with an edge of disappointment, which was coupled with a heavy sigh.

'Astoria, my mother is visiting today. Did you forget?'

'No,' you replied. If you were truly honest, the date had played in your mind for weeks; however _some things_ absolutely had to be dealt with, and couldn't be put off until Narcissa had found time in her overfilled schedule.

'Why does it matter right now?' You pressed, 'she doesn't arrive on our doorstep for another nine hours.'

'Well, don't we have things to do?' he replied, as if you should be preparing the whole of the morning, and early afternoon, for this seemingly momentous occasion.

'What do you anticipate, Draco, is going to take me nine hours to perfect? Did you forget we still have the services of at least two house elves who maintain this entire residence?'

'I might as well have, since you insist on cooking all our meals yourself,' he muttered, sitting up again on the edge of the bed, and avoiding your gaze.

'I thought you liked my cooking,' you protested, feeling a bit hurt. 'At least, you said you did.'

'Well sometimes I wouldn't mind you allowing Sampy in the kitchen every once in a while,' Draco grumbled again, although it sounded ridiculously petty. It crossed your mind that perhaps he wasn't quite sure what to do with you, but you didn't push him. Your relationship had undergone some fairly radical changes in the past couple of months.

'Why can't you just stay with me this morning then,' you reasoned, sitting up on the pillows. 'You know, to prepare me for the answers I must give to satisfy your mother's childrearing concerns.'

'Are you a pauper or diseased?' He questioned.

'No,' you replied, slightly confused.

'Then I'm sure Mother will find you satisfactory,' he retorted, a slight smile playing on his lips. He raised himself off the bed to find his shoes, but you managed to grab the slack of his jumper and tug on it playfully.

'What if I said I absolutely _needed_ you to stay.'

'Then I would ask, whatever you would you require at six in the morning on a Sunday, aside from sleep?'

'You ask too many questions,' you replied, 'can I not just show you?'

It was a bold question, but the unintentional, sleepy innocence sweetened it. Perhaps someone with more Gryffindor traits would have missed the subtle hints, but you certainly did not expect Draco to. Slytherins possessed that inexplicable ability to read people's hidden agendas, which is probably how they kept themselves out of trouble so often. A Head of House who had a blatant bias towards his own students probably helped in that regard, too.

You felt like it was one of those risks which could either pay off considerably, or leave you feeling painfully rejected. You had never really attempted to seduce him before, if the truth be told. When it came to anything remotely sexual, Draco was passionate and aggressive, yet painfully irregular. This irregularity had never bothered you so much as it did now.

'Show me what, exactly?' he drawled, one eyebrow raised.

It was clear that you at least had managed to capture his attention, and despite his reply being a question, you knew he wasn't simply curious or surprised. Although this dance was new, and fairly impromptu, the compelling desire left any lack of confidence totally behind. You would play this game with him, and you would win.

'You have to play by the rules, Draco,' you smiled, coyly. 'Come here.'

Your body, which had shed all of its sleepiness, was almost quivering with anticipation. Your skin was raised with goosebumps, and tingled, like it was desperate to be touched.

Surprisingly, he followed your command, throwing his shoes in the corner as he approached the bed slowly. Too slow, you thought. Far too slow.

Feeling somewhat animalistic, you launched at him before he could even reach the edge. Somehow, before you were even fully aware of it, you were on your knees, your hands had found themselves tangled in his hair, and your lips were roughly moving against his. The heat of your bodies together made you almost want to explode with _want_, and you prayed to Merlin he wanted this too, because honestly you were enjoying yourself far too much to even remember to check if he was responding.

As it turned out, he was responding. Quite well, in fact. As you surfaced for much needed air, you noticed his hands were holding in the small of your back, pressing your bodies closer, despite the small bump protruding from your stomach. His mouth trailed its way down your neck, stopping just where the neck and shoulder met, and bit down, gently.

Masterfully sliding his hand up, underneath your loose singlet, to cup one of your breasts, he slid the pad of his thumb teasingly across the exposed nipple while continuing to gently suck the spot on your neck. Unintentionally, you moaned, arching your back.

'Draco, you need to lie down,' you breathed, somehow managing to be coherent through the waves of pleasure sweeping your body.

'You don't like how that feels?' he teased, lifting his head from your skin for a second, before kissing his way back up your neck.

'No, I do but-' you began, before he lazily flicked his finger over your nipple again, and you completely lost your train of thought.

Breaking contact with your skin, momentarily, in a very un-Draco-like way, he flopped himself onto his back next to you. Instinctually, you crawled over him.

Enjoying how he felt under you, you tested the waters by grinding your hips against his. His eyes fluttered closed at the pressure. Pressing your hands into his chest, you tried it again, feeling the heat between your bodies intensify. In an instant, you found yourself naked, before Draco shoved his wand back under the pillow.

'Didn't have time for the slow way,' he smirked.

'Be fair,' you reasoned, reaching for your own wand, and vanishing his clothes.


End file.
